


Wants and Needs

by cominginside



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Pittsburgh Penguins, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cominginside/pseuds/cominginside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sid plays dirty to win a game.  Alex holds him to his words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wants and Needs

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/hockeyanonmeme/460.html?thread=366540#t366540) on [](http://hockeyanonmeme.livejournal.com/profile)[**hockeyanonmeme**](http://hockeyanonmeme.livejournal.com/). Also, this is set in the 2011-12 season to make the timing work. Jossed already, thanks Max.

"It seemed like you were having trouble focusing on the ice--"

"Lost the puck five times to Crosby--"

"Most turnovers in a game since--"

"Do you have any comment?"

Alex has a comment. Alex has a lot of comments, none of which are printable, and so he just says the usual shit about working harder next time, how the Penguins were tough opponents, a perfect set of soundbites that don't really mean anything. He hears Bruce across the locker room saying similar stuff, hears someone else saying that it just felt like the Penguins _wanted_ it more, like somehow that's an excuse for the way they played.

For the way he played.

What Alex wants to say is this: "Sidney Crosby offered to blow me if I could beat him."

Or this: "Sidney Crosby groped me."

Or this: "Sidney Crosby has the dirtiest mouth I've ever heard."

But he doesn't, just gives bland non-answers and waits for the press to give up and leave him alone. They do, eventually, and Alex is so tired and angry and confused that he doesn't even care about the looks he's getting from them. He just drops his head against the locker behind him and closes his eyes and tries to figure out what the _fuck_ had even happened.

Well. They'd lost, 3-2, and they'd lost because Alex hadn't been able to hold onto the puck at all when Sidney fucking Crosby was on the ice. They'd lost against a Penguins team that was missing Malkin and Staal and Talbot and Fleury, a team they should have been able to grind into the dust. No doubt the Pens had wanted this game desperately--they've been losing for most of the month, game after game, and Alex knows what that's like, how much you _need_ to win when you're losing like that. He's been there. Luckily, the Caps have been on this year, better than ever, and--barring losing every game between now and the playoffs--they're set for the post-season. The Pens aren't. So, yeah: they wanted it more. But Alex has never-- _never_ \--known _anyone_ to want a win so badly that they were willing to say the things Crosby had been saying. Not when reputation means so much in the league.

By the time Alex opens his eyes again, the locker room is starting to clear out, the press long gone and his teammates packing up around him. Alex hasn't even showered yet, still covered in sweat from the game, and he knows he should say something to the guys to pick them up, but he can't come up with any words that would help. They seem to get it, shoulder claps and half-smiles as everyone filters out. Sasha pauses and asks if Alex wants to come over, but Alex doesn't really feel like dealing with Sasha's questions right now, well-meaning though they'd be, so he just shakes his head.

"Got a headache," he says, and it's true. There's tension across his shoulders and up through his neck, a tight throbbing ache that he rubs at ineffectually. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Sasha says. He pats Alex's cheek and leaves Alex alone in the locker room.

Alex closes his eyes again and tries to will himself to relax, but there's too much adrenalin running through him. Even though he's tired, muscles sore and brain exhausted from running in circles all night, he's wired too, enough that he knows that he won't be able to calm down until he wears himself out completely. He could go to the gym and work out, but he doesn't want to--he wants to be back on the ice, like somehow that'll make sense of it.

He's still half-dressed and it doesn't take him long to suit up completely, back into his game gear and jersey and skates, leaving his helmet on the bench. There's no one in the hallway back to the ice, the complex nearly silent and dark around him already, everyone finishing up fast to get home. The ice itself is barely lit, but even if it were pitch black, Alex would be able to find his way around. He knows the ice. He knows where centre is, where the lines are; he's intimately familiar with every inch of the boards, mostly because he's been slammed into most of them over the years. He's used to the hits, the good ones and the bad ones and the cheap ones, and he's used to the shit-talking, the crude comments and insults. They're all part of the game.

Flirtation is not.

Yeah, there's joking about that kind of stuff--Alex has gotten a lot of it himself, because of Sasha's inherent clinginess, and he's dealt a lot of it too. But there's a difference between making dirty jokes about your teammates and hitting on the opposing team to get an advantage.

Alex is _angry_. He can feel it, hot and tense under his skin as he skates in circles, no fancy footwork, just the sharp sound of his blades pushing him forward, faster and faster with each breath. He's angry at Crosby, for pulling this stupid shit, for being willing to degrade himself for a win, for getting under his skin. He's angry at himself, for _letting_ Crosby get to him, for losing his focus, for losing the puck.

He's angry at himself for wondering _what if_ when Crosby had breathed dirty things at him, just quiet enough to slip past everyone around them, just loud enough to make Alex's breath catch, his hands hesitate for long enough that Crosby could steal the puck and break away, again and again. Bruce had tried to break them apart, switching up the lines, but somehow Bylsma had been just as quick to counter every time. Alex can't remember the last time he'd seen that much of Crosby on the ice.

"Alex," someone calls across the ice, and he slows down long enough to see the facility manager standing at the edge of the ice. "I'm closing up now. Turn off the lights when you leave." Alex waves and the manager walks away, leaving Alex alone in the building.

The silence becomes almost oppressive, filling the massive room from the back seats all the way down to the ice. He's cold; there's no audience to heat the place up and he's still damp with sweat. The soft rhythm of his skates is comforting, letting him focus on something other than the ridiculous events of the game. After ten minutes or so, he's starting to feel better, starting to put everything aside and get ready to move on to the next game. If nothing else, he's looking forward to a nice, straightforward game against the Oilers, who probably won't offer to suck his dick. Not unless Taylor Hall really is the next Sidney Crosby, like he'd heard some idiot talking head on TV say the other day.

Suddenly, there's the sound of the door opening echoing through the room. Alex turns sharply, skates scraping against the ice and sending up a spray behind him.

Sidney Crosby is standing on the edge of the ice, dressed to match Alex, like Alex has summoned him just by thinking of him. He's not coming closer, just looking at Alex, who's too stunned to say anything or even move. They stay frozen like that for what feels like minutes, a strange vignette. The tension's thick enough that Alex almost expects the sky to open above them, like in that Winter Classic ad from the year before, and the thought is ridiculous enough to break him free of his shock.

"What the fuck do you want?" he says. He shifts a little, pulls himself fully upright, and waits. If Crosby wants to do this--whatever this is--he's going to have to come to Alex. This is his arena, his ice; he is king here.

Crosby skates forward until he's close enough that he can speak quietly and still be heard, but not so close that Alex gets a good look at his face. The lighting that Alex had found nearly comforting earlier works against him now, casting Crosby's features in shadows that shift as he speaks.

"I wanted to explain," he says, and Alex notes that "explain" doesn't mean "apologize". He's not surprised by the omission. For all that the media likes to paint Crosby as the good one, the nice one, he's got just as much pride as anyone else who plays the game, and sometimes he can be as cold as the ice they're standing on. Knowing that doesn't make the rush of anger that fills Alex any less intense.

"Fuck you," he says, skating forward into Crosby's personal space until Crosby's forced to look at him, not stare past his shoulder. "You whore, with whore's mouth."

This close, he can see the way Crosby flushes, angry and embarrassed and still so stubborn, his mouth setting in a line.

"We needed to win," he says, pretending to ignore the insult.

"You played dirty," Alex says. "Not such a good boy. You win like this before? Or you win by following through?"

"Oh, fuck you," Crosby replies, losing the careful facade of calm, eyes flashing even in the near dark. "Fuck you. I've never--"

"But you did," Alex points out. "You say you suck my dick. That I can fuck you. You said these, you can't say 'never'." He's moving again, crowding Crosby up against the boards until his back is flat against them, anger warring with apprehension across his face. Alex has his height and weight working for him, allowing him to loom over Crosby. That Crosby's holding his ground and not trying to get away earns him points, but Alex doesn't give a shit about Crosby's pride right now.

"I--" Crosby says, and Alex has had enough. He pushes Crosby back into the boards, hard, and kisses him before he has a chance to react, hard and fast and rough, enough that it probably hurts. It should. It's meant to.

There's a few seconds where Alex almost thinks he's actually getting away with this, but Crosby snaps out of it and shoves him off, pushing hard enough that Alex actually skids backwards a few inches before he stops. He looks at Crosby's face and expects to see anger, the kind of anger he's feeling, but mostly Crosby just looks stunned.

"Cocktease," Alex says, and shifts to push off and leave Crosby to sort his own shit out. Alex has had enough of it. He doesn't want to hear the explanation--and he's pretty sure that "we needed to win" wasn't all of it--and he doesn't want to see Crosby again until the playoffs, if the Penguins even pull it together to make it there. He just wants to get a shower, go home, and forget about the whole fucking day.

"I'm not," Crosby says, and Alex looks up, because he's never heard Crosby sound like that before. He sounds--small. Ashamed. Determined.

"I'm not a fucking cocktease," he says, again, louder and sharper, and then he's dropping to his knees, and Alex can't even move, can't think, just watches dumbly as Crosby fumbles with his gloves, on his knees in front of Alex.

He should stop this. He should skate away, leave Crosby here to drown in his shame at what he's offering to do. But he watches the way Crosby swallows awkwardly as he's reaching for the edge of Alex's jersey and instead of leaving, he reaches down and tilts Crosby's face up until he can stare him in the eyes and says, "Make it good, maybe I won't fuck you too."

It's stupid and dangerous--it'd be stupid and dangerous anywhere, but here, on the ice, where anyone could walk in and see them, it's worse. Alex knows this. He just doesn't care, not when he sees _anticipation_ flicker across Crosby's face, not fear.

Sidney Crosby is just full of surprises tonight.

Getting his dick free from the many layers of protection that surround it is no easy task and it takes both of them working together to do it. By the time the cold arena air hits him, Alex is half-hard just from the way Crosby's looking at him, apparently doing this with the same level of intensity as he gives the game. Somehow, Alex isn't surprised.

The first touch is tentative, like maybe Crosby isn't as sure of this as he wants Alex to think he is, but he gets it together quickly, hand sliding to hold the base of Alex's cock, jerking him off a couple of times until Alex is hard. Alex doesn't miss the way Crosby's eyes flicker up to him before Crosby opens his mouth and slips the tip of Alex's dick into it, doesn't miss the way his grip tightens slightly when Alex pushes is, nudges his hips forward until Crosby has no choice but to take more of him. His mouth is hot, made hotter by the cold air around them, and Alex bites back a moan as Crosby keeps going, heat surrounding him. He winds a hand into Crosby's hair, just long enough to hold onto, and pushes him further, far enough that Crosby has to squeeze his dick to stop Alex from choking him. He pulls back and gulps in air, glaring up at Alex.

"Don't fucking--" he says, voice rough, and Alex rolls his eyes and pushes Crosby back towards his dick until Crosby gives up and opens his mouth and lets Alex back in.

"Some whore, can't even deep throat," he says. Crosby makes an angry noise and Alex briefly thinks better of mocking a guy whose teeth are so close to his dick, but somehow Crosby seems to be taking that as a challenge. He tongues the head of Alex's cock, licks the tip, slides further down until his lips are pressed up against his fingers. Alex can feel it when Crosby takes a deep breath, lets it go, and drops his hand. He doesn't quite manage to get all of Alex's cock down, but Alex isn't exactly lacking in that department, so he's willing to be forgiving. It feels fucking good anyway, hot and wet, the ridges of Crosby's mouth and the soft press of his tongue so good against Alex's dick. It looks better. Crosby's mouth is obscene, full red lips shiny with spit, his cheeks flushed pink, his breath coming in short little gasps.

Alex tugs him back, then pushes him forward again, fucking his mouth sharply, pushing it just far enough that Crosby can't do anything but take it, hands tense against his own thighs. As blow jobs go, it's not the best one Alex has had--Crosby's done this before, he can tell, but he's clumsy and doesn't know how to use his tongue. Alex doesn't care, because it's _Sidney Crosby_ down on his knees, Alex's dick in his mouth, Alex's hands in his hair.

Crosby pulls off, finally, pushing his head back against Alex's hands until Alex relents and lets him sit back, breathing heavily and not quite looking at Alex.

"So? Good enough?" Crosby asks, finally, and even if Alex hadn't just been fucking his mouth he would have known what Crosby had been doing just from his voice. It's distracting enough that he almost misses the question. It takes him a few seconds to put it together with his earlier statement, and his dick jumps even as the cold air works against his arousal.

"Fuck," he says, involuntarily, and Crosby _laughs_ , rough and a little broken, like maybe he's not really sure how they got here either. There's an invitation in the way he's looking up at Alex, though, and Alex isn't about to say no.

"No," Alex says. "You suck at this. Never become hooker."

"Not like I've had a lot of practice," Crosby says. It's almost funny how defensive he sounds, how competitive he is even when it's not something he _should_ be good at.

"Too bad," Alex says. He presses his fingers against Crosby's lips until Crosby opens his mouth, lets Alex push his fingers in. It's not a very subtle warning, but just in case, Alex says, "I'm going to fuck you."

It's really Crosby's last chance to say no, to take the hit to his pride and back down, but all he does is look away and lick at Alex's fingers.

If Alex had thought that getting his dick out had been complicated, getting Crosby stripped down enough for Alex to fuck him is a fucking nightmare. Alex has never before thought that they need _less_ protective gear, but he's starting to envy the guys who played in just pants and shirts. They may have broken more limbs, but they'd never have been cockblocked by their equipment. If either of them had any sense, they'd be back in the locker room, getting properly naked and not courting hypothermia, but if either of them had any sense, they wouldn't be here in the first place.

Finally, Crosby's stripped down enough that Alex can push a finger into him, just slick enough with spit that it slides in, but still rough enough that Crosby makes a strangled gasp and tenses up around Alex.

"Breathe," Alex says, and waits until Crosby does before he continues. He doesn't want this to be _easy_ , but he's not out to hurt Crosby, either. Soon enough, Crosby's relaxed enough that Alex can get a second finger in, then a third.

He pulls his fingers out and sits back, taking a second to enjoy the sight before him. Crosby's on his hands and knees on the ice, pants shoved awkwardly down around his thighs, jersey pushed up so Alex can see the base of his spine. He wonders if Crosby would kill him for coming on his jersey. It would be fitting, he thinks, to leave a reminder so that Crosby doesn't try that kind of shit again.

"Having second thoughts?" Crosby asks, and Alex smacks his ass, hard enough that the sound echoes back to them. Crosby shuts up, breath a sharp hiss through his teeth.

Alex does have one second thought, because neither of them has a condom, unless Crosby's got one hidden somewhere on him. Right now, Alex wouldn't be surprised to find that to be true.

"You clean?" he asks, and watches the way Crosby tenses up on the ice. Apparently he hadn't thought things through--possibly the first time Alex can think of that Sidney Crosby hasn't planned everything out. Alex doesn't know how that makes him feel.

"Yeah," Crosby says, "you?"

"Yeah," Alex says. They'll both have to take the other's word for it, but Alex knows he isn't lying, and really, the chances of Crosby lying about this are pretty slim.

Crosby nods, legs shifting a little further apart as Alex kneels between them. He strokes himself a couple of times, getting his dick back into the game, and then pushes forward, nudging at Crosby's ass until he's in. Crosby's tight-- _really_ tight, tight enough that if he's done this before, it's been a while. Alex finds himself rubbing Crosby's back to get him to relax, because there's a fine line between good tight and painful tight, and with just spit and precome slicking him up, it's going to be a tight fit anyway.

After a minute or so, Crosby breathes out a soft sigh and Alex feels him relax around his dick. He still waits a few seconds before pushing in, slowly, opening Crosby up and making him feel every inch of Alex's cock as it fills him up. The silence of the arena swallows up their breathing, the wet drag of skin on skin, takes it all in and hides it like it's not happening. Alex thinks that maybe it isn't, that maybe this is some sort of fucked up dream, his subconscious making up for the loss, but everything's too fucking real for that. Crosby's so hot and tight that it almost hurts, that Alex can't do much more than just twitch his hips against Crosby's ass and hold onto his hips. Even if he wanted to speed this up, make it harder and faster, they're still on the ice, and there's not enough friction for anything more than shallow thrusts. It's good anyway, good enough that Alex is feeling generous enough to reach around and free Crosby's dick for him.

"Touch yourself," he says, and Crosby's pride doesn't win this battle, because he shifts back against Alex with a whine, dropping to one forearm against the ice, and Alex can _feel it_ when Crosby gets hold of his dick, because he tightens up around Alex, hot enough that Alex jerks forward and nearly sends them skidding across the ice.

"Fuck," Crosby says, but neither of them stop, Alex keeping up a steady pace as he drives his cock into Crosby. There's no way to get a good angle, not like this, with the ice and their equipment in the way, but from the sounds Crosby's making beneath him, he's doing something right. Alex picks up the pace as much as he can, using Crosby's hips for leverage. He's holding on tight enough that he'll probably leave bruises, but that's Crosby's problem to explain, not his.

"You like this," he tells Crosby, emphasizing his words with a thrust. "Told you, you whore."

Crosby doesn't bother to argue, just moans, a little brokenly. There's no more talking after that, just harsh breaths and desperate noises from both of them. Alex knows he isn't going to last long, can feel his orgasm building in his veins, the heat pooling in his stomach, but he wants to make sure Crosby gets off first. It's not out of chivalry, but competition. He wraps a hand around Crosby's, presses in deep as he jerks him off, picks up the pace until Crosby's whining and shaking, so tight around him that Alex can't help the groan that escapes him. There's a hot splash of liquid on his hand and that's enough, he's won, and he's coming, hips jerking until he's deep inside Sid and it feels so good.

Crosby drops his other arm back down to the ice and stays there as Alex pulls out, wiping his hand on Crosby's jersey as an afterthought. If Crosby notices, he doesn't say anything.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, breathing in deep, starting the complicated manoeuvres to get themselves dressed again. Alex doesn't really know what to say, anyway. They're not friends, not lovers; this was a one off deal. Eventually he just stands up, brushing ice off himself, and says, "Showers this way." It's a peace offering of sorts. Crosby knows where the showers are--he probably had one after the game, unlike Alex--but he nods and follows Alex anyway. They split off at the locker rooms, Alex heading back into his own, Crosby off to the visitor's.

Alex expects to spend his shower regretting what just happened, but he's too tired to do more than be slightly bemused. He washes up thoroughly, enjoying having the room to himself, and by the time he's done, he feels like the night's already slipping away into the strangeness of memory.

Crosby's waiting for him in the hallway when he steps out, dressed in street clothes, his bag slung over his shoulder. Alex is in his post-game suit, even though he's not going anywhere other than home.

"Max probably isn't coming back," Crosby says. "His arm--it's not healing right. I just don't want his last season to end before playoffs."

Alex is startled that Crosby is telling him this, but before he can come up with a response, Crosby keeps going.

"I can't fight and I can't talk shit," he says. "I can out-skate most guys, and I can score goals, but it's not enough. Not always. Not against you."

He looks up, staring Alex straight in the eyes in a way that makes Alex feel unsettled.

"We _needed_ to win."

And Alex gets it.  



End file.
